Worth The Wound
by Kizzia
Summary: John would not, before tonight, have ever thought he'd have a reason to be happy that a band of Chinese smugglers mistook him for Sherlock and thus pistol-whipped and then kidnapped him. However, as he sits next to Sherlock in the cab home from the tramway, Sherlock's reaction gives him the best reason in the world. (Johnlock slash of the detailed variety)
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: **A missing scene from The Blind Banker, this had been sitting, neglected, on my hard drive for over a year. I found it when I was having a bit of fic spring clean after re-watching HLV for the umpteenth time and needing a distraction._

_I've decided to share it because, after Series 3, I think those of us that ship Sherlock & John romantically need a little more Sherlock/John loving in our lives._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

It's Sherlock's hands, in the end, that do it. Those long dextrous fingers running over the bloody lump on the side of John's head, probing and questing oh-so-gently and showing him, more clearly than anything Sherlock could say, exactly how much he cares.

Sherlock's fingers do more than examine his wound though; John can feel them breaking down the last of the barriers he'd erected in his head to prevent how he felt about Sherlock showing on his face. Most of them had been blasted apart in the tramway - when the fear that Sherlock might be hurt had outmatched his fear for Sarah - and now it's honestly just a relief to let the last few fall. So he doesn't fight it, instead simply allows himself to feel everything he's bottled up about Sherlock these past weeks.

'I should have insisted you went to hospital. How dizzy are you?' Sherlock's voice is harsh and tight, and John realises that, in letting go, he's swayed into the warmth of Sherlock's body, pressed into his touch. That Sherlock has, for once, completely misunderstood the reason for his actions would be amusing at any other time; as it is, he has to make a decision. He has to choose whether to lock everything down again, assume he's imagining Sherlock's affections and carry on pretending with Sarah or to take a risk and offer up everything. Tilting his head, so he can look directly into Sherlock's eyes, the decision makes itself when he sees the depth of concern, shot through with what John recognises as latent desire, in those mutable blue-green irises.

'I'm not dizzy at all.' John smiles and lets his tongue flicker across his bottom lip before adding, 'I want to be this close to you.'

Sherlock inhales sharply, left hand coming up to cup the uninjured side of John's face for a moment before letting it skim down John's neck, across his chest and coming to rest just above his hip bone. 'And Sarah?'

John doesn't need to hear the derision in Sherlock's tone to know just how he feels about the woman they dropped home not five minutes earlier; the curl of his upper lip and the narrowing of his eyes is more than enough. He opens his mouth to say something non-damning about her being a colleague and a friend but Sherlock's pupils are widening and his fingers are circling on John's waist in counterpoint to the motion of the cab and John finds himself saying 'Who?' and pressing even closer, wanting to kiss Sherlock's annoyance away but not quite capable of it. This is uncharted territory in more ways than one and his usual bravery seems to have deserted him.

'No-one,' Sherlock husks, lips flexing into a half smile that creases the corners of his eyes. 'No-one at all,' he adds as slowly, he begins to close the gap between their mouths.

John can feel Sherlock's breath, warm and coffee-scented, ghosting over his face, and knows his skin is flushing a little more with each exhalation. Sherlock's fingers are no longer touching his wound, instead they are stroking the curve of the back of his skull and the shell of his ear; teasing touches that are making him shiver and, oh God, he's whining. Tiny noises right in the back of his throat and how is this possible? How can one man reduce him to this with just his fingers and his eyes?

'Is this really what you want?' Sherlock's voice is rough, shaking through them both.

'You need to ask?' John murmurs, winding the fingers of his right hand into the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck as his left sweeps up Sherlock's outer thigh.

'You said you weren't gay.' The words make Sherlock's mouth twist as if they are bitter on his tongue.

John expects he has a similar expression as he forces himself to say, 'You said you were married to your work.'

They stare at each other despite being almost too close to focus properly, frozen except for Sherlock's fingers, which continue to stroke and circle until John finds his voice again.

'I wasn't being entirely honest,' he breathes, tongue swiping over his upper lip in mute appeal.

'Neither was I,' Sherlock rumbles and then his mouth is over John's.

Any lingering pain, from the pistol-whipping and the subsequent incarceration, is swallowed up by the burst of endorphins flooding through John's veins as Sherlock's lips move against his own. They are plush, if a little dry, but there is no hesitancy, no uncertainty in the gentle pressure and light touch; instead there is a sensation of raw power being held in check by will alone and it touches something deep in John's core.

This is nothing like being kissed by a woman, nothing like any other kiss John has either given or received, and for a moment he can't process anything other than the fire under his skin at each point of contact between their bodies. Sherlock's lips part and his tongue begins to trace the bow of John's mouth and John yields, utterly and completely, melting into Sherlock as he lets him in, his own tongue embarrassingly uncoordinated as he attempts to reciprocate. Not that Sherlock seems to mind as his other hand comes up so that he's now cradling John's head with infinite care and then he begins to take John apart.

John clutches helplessly at Sherlock's neck and waist as his mouth is invaded so swiftly and effectively that he cannot keep up, cannot follow the swirls and swipes of Sherlock's tongue. All he can do is hold on as he learns what it is to be worshiped by another, to be kissed as if the kiss is all there is and all Sherlock ever hopes there will be. He's moaning, he knows; his desperation and his desire bubbling up his throat without any recourse to his brain. He tries to concentrate - to move past the sheer joy of being touched like he is something precious, something that is worth taking time over - and start taking an active part in proceedings but Sherlock's thumbs are inscribing tiny arcs just below the hinges of his jaw and his tongue is tracing the same motion on the roof of John's mouth.

It feels so intimate John almost can't bear it, yet when the cab jolts and forces their mouths apart he scrabbles at Sherlock, desperate to re-establish the connection. Only to be halted by a strident south London voice yelling, 'Oi! You two! Stop mauling each other, pay me and get the fuck out!'

'We're home,' Sherlock murmurs into the skin just below John's ear and then, as calmly as if he'd merely been checking his texts rather than turning John into a mess of nerve endings and need, he slides a couple of notes from his wallet – when did he get that out? – shoves them through the gap in the screen with a barely concealed sneer and slips gracefully out of the cab. John blinks myopically and tries to remember how to coordinate his legs. He succeeds up to a point and his exit isn't a complete disaster, although it's shaky enough to make the cabbie snigger before he roars away.

They don't say anything to each other as they make their way inside and up to the flat but it isn't an awkward silence. No, it's an electric space between them that heightens John's sense that this, this … connection, that was made the day they met and has been growing and strengthening ever since, is the most essential, the most necessary thing in the world. That everything they've ever been and everything they've ever done has led them to this point. That what they're about to do, what he _hopes_ they're about to do, is simply one more step they were always going to take. That they've both been waiting for each other, without ever realising it before.

'Sher…' his voice cracks and he swallows hard before trying again, 'Sherlock.'

Oh God, he sounds wrecked. Hell, who's he trying to kid, he _is_ wrecked. He's never wanted anyone like this and his skin is almost itching with the need for Sherlock's hands, Sherlock's mouth … anything Sherlock will give him.

'John.' Sherlock stands in front of him as he shucks both coat and jacket off in one smooth movement, letting them drop, unheeded to the floor. His voice is dark and deep as the night sky outside. 'John, I … I need you to ….'

Heat pulses through John and he grabs two handfuls of Sherlock's shirt and pulls, slamming their bodies flush against each other even as he crashes their lips together and kisses the rest of the words right out of Sherlock's mouth.

It's definitely the right thing to do. The noise the act elicits from Sherlock - a growl of desire that sounds as if it's coming from the centre of his soul – drives out the last of John's nerves and suddenly the fact that he doesn't know instinctively what to do, how to touch, where to taste, couldn't be more irrelevant. Sherlock wants him, he wants Sherlock, and that's all that matters. He's a fast learner and Sherlock seems pretty clued up about what he's doing. They can figure the rest of out together.

Sherlock's fingers find the skin of John's back under the edge of his jumper, the calluses from the violin strings catching lightly as Sherlock begins to map the vertebrae, from the bottom up.

'Too many clothes,' John says into Sherlock's mouth and then, as he's longed to do on many occasions in the past two months, tightens his grip on Sherlock's shirt and yanks. Hard.

Buttons pinwheel away, their threads no match for the strength of a determined ex-soldier who's spent the last four weeks working out in the hopes physical exhaustion would burn away the desire to jump his flatmate; a flatmate who, so John had thought, was as likely to reciprocate his feelings as he was to bed Penelope Cruiz. And yet he is, literally, ripping Sherlock's clothes off whilst Sherlock takes a slightly more restrained approach, undoing John's shirt one button at a time, fingers brushing each centimetre of John's stomach and chest as it becomes exposed.

_I've never been so glad to be wrong_, John thinks, breaking the kiss as he pushes the ruined shirt off Sherlock's shoulders, blinking at the vast expanse of unsullied pale skin he's exposed. It seems to shimmer in the gloom of the flat which remains lit by the glow of the street lights alone.

'You're beautiful,' he murmurs, 'Utterly exquisite.'

Pulling back a little further he presses his palms flat to Sherlock's chest, feeling the thrumming of Sherlock's heart under his hands before sweeping them up to Sherlock's shoulders and down his arms. The action effectively halts Sherlock's attempts to undress him as they end up with their hands tangled together, staring into each other's blown pupils.

'You really want me.' It's a statement of fact, Sherlock's tone confident and sure but there is an edge of awe laced through it that shakes something deep inside John. He had known from the minute their lips touched that this would be more than just sex for him and he hoped it would be the same for Sherlock but now he _knows_ that it will be and that knowledge blazes incandescent through every atom of every one of his cells. Suddenly the only thing that matters is making sure Sherlock knows it too.

'I do.' He lifts their hands and kisses Sherlock's knuckles, starting with his left hand and then doing the same to his right. 'I want all of you - every single molecule of your body and every single note of your soul.'

Sherlock smiles. It's a soft smile, shaping his mouth into a curve that subtly radiates a joy so bright it's almost blinding. John has never, ever, seen Sherlock express such unadulterated emotion before. The fizz of pleasure that knowing he is the one to have made that happen is akin, he thinks, to what it would be like to have a champagne bottle opened in his stomach.

'I want to make you smile like that every day,' he says and Sherlock's fingers tighten round his own.

'I'd like to think I'll be able to reciprocate,' Sherlock murmurs, backing John against the door and nuzzling his nose into the hair at John's temple, 'but I suspect I'm going to make you frown more than I make you smile.'

'I'm possessive,' John says by way of an answer, twisting so he can nip at the skin just below Sherlock's jaw, revelling in the tang of salt mixed with the remnants of cologne. 'I don't share and I don't compromise and I expect the same from you. This is all or nothing, Sherlock.'

'Yes, John, I _do_ know.' Sherlock angles his head to give John better access to the smooth, creamy column of his neck and adds, in a voice that is richer than twenty five year old whisky, 'I choose all. I choose you. Now please … _Captain,_ put your mouth to better use than talking. Mark me … my neck … so everyone can see I'm yours.'

John complies with a growl that clearly goes straight to Sherlock's groin - judging by the way he bucks up against John even before John's teeth latch onto the pulse point - and he sucks, hands kneading Sherlock's fucking fantastic arse at the same time. Sherlock's moans are shockingly loud but the way he melts into John - like a kitten rendered immobile by a grab to the scruff of its neck - is even more surprising. John can almost feel the tension draining out of Sherlock's muscles as he continues to bite, suck and lave Sherlock's skin until he's certain his handiwork will leave a sufficiently obvious bruise.

'God, Sherlock,' he gasps, desperate to do something more but uncertain exactly what more should entail when the half of the partnership who actually seems to know how this is supposed to go is currently so blissed out they appear incapable of movement. 'Please …. tell me what to do.'

'Take me to bed,' Sherlock pants out into the crook of John's neck. 'And then take me.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

'Take me to bed … and then take me.'

Sherlock's words, combined with the sheer need in his voice, push away John's uncertainty and send the rest of his blood rushing south at a speed that would put Usain Bolt to shame.

'Yeah,' John says, voice more than a little breathy as he pushes Sherlock upright and starts shuffling them both towards the kitchen, 'Yeah, I can take you to bed. Turn round.'

'Good.' Sherlock staggers a little as he refuses to turn, instead walking backwards as his hands curl into the edges of John's shirt and tug him closer.

John can't help reacting to Sherlock's apparent unwillingness to let him out of his sight, surging forward for another kiss that starts off fierce but swiftly turns filthy – all tongues and teeth and moans that wouldn't be out of place in a porn film - setting the tone for the journey to the bedroom. John's shirt is the first casualty; the rest of their clothes follow swiftly, and by the time they stumble into Sherlock's room - so entwined John's not sure where Sherlock ends and he begins - they are both stark naked. John's also pretty certain he's more aroused than he's ever been before in his life.

'I think you said something about the bed,' he murmurs against Sherlock's lips, giving Sherlock's arse one last squeeze before sliding his hands up Sherlock's back and onto his shoulders, gently putting a few inches of space between them.

'I did.' Sherlock loosens his grip on John's waist and lets John step away.

John doesn't go far, taking Sherlock's hand and leading him those last few, crucial steps.

'Lie down,' John murmurs, inclining his head towards the bed as he yanks the duvet to the bottom with his free hand. 'Lie down, Sherlock, and let me look at you.'

Sherlock makes a soft noise in the back of his throat as he lets go of John's hand and complies gracefully, stretching out on the clear white expanse of sheet, hands under his head on the pillow.

'Was this what you had in mind?' he asks. It's clear he's not remotely self conscious about his body but his chest, heaving in a manner entirely disproportionate to the amount of energy he's just expended, betrays just how much John's request has affected him.

John nods in response because, right now, he couldn't speak if his life depended on it. When he's allowed himself - on the verge of sleep or the cusp of waking, when his guard was down and the temptation was too great to resist – to picture what taking Sherlock to bed might be like, this image is the one that had come up most often. He hadn't expected the reality to outmatch the fantasy - hadn't ever expected to be in a position to find out - but it does. Immeasurably so.

Sherlock is … breathtakingly beautiful. John can think of no other way of describing him at this moment. He's all long lean muscles and sharp angles that should be harsh but aren't, thanks to the acres of pale skin lit to a creamy glow by the light coming in through the window. His hair is an explosion of wild and tangled curls that frame his brows and highlight his cheekbones, which are almost as sharp as his gaze.

Oh. _Oh_. John's eyes widen as he realises Sherlock's performing his own evaluation on him. For an instant he has the ridiculous urge to hide but he pushes it away. He's never been body conscious before and he's damned if he'll start now. Besides, Sherlock's approval of what he's looking at is very clearly visible, in both in the depths of his eyes and certain other parts of his body; Sherlock's cock is hard and red, straining upwards over the concave curve of his belly, the tip glistening with pre-come. It's larger than John had imagined it to be. Not by much, granted, but enough to jolt him out of his fantasies and bring reality crashing back around him.

He swallows hard, his earlier nerves back in full force. His body is still screaming at him to step forward and join Sherlock on the bed. To touch and taste, kiss, lick and suck until he knows Sherlock's body more intimately than he knows his own. His brain, however, is pointing out that he doesn't know what he's doing and that he's more than likely to be completely awful at it.

It shouldn't matter. It really shouldn't. It isn't as if Sherlock doesn't know he's never been with a man before. Yet, somehow, the thought of fucking this up - making an idiot of himself and not satisfying the only person in this world whose happiness is more important to him than his own life – is genuinely terrifying. That and the fact that he has no idea what he should do next because none of his fantasies have involved transitions, just disparate scenes that segued seamlessly from one to the other. He can feel his erection start to wilt as his face colours with shame as his inaction.

'Sherlock, I don't … I mean … What should I … Um …' His voice falters and he gives an abortive wave of his hands, not really sure how to phrase the question so he doesn't sound completely pathetic.

Sherlock shifts so that he's propped up on his left elbow. His eyes are soft, as the smile that breaks across his face as he holds out his right hand to John.

'You can start by coming over here and kissing me.'

John isn't sure whether he's reacting to the look in Sherlock's eyes or the quiet command in Sherlock's voice and he doesn't actually care. All that matters is that he's able to move again, his hand engulfed by Sherlock's, their mouths are pressed together once more.

When they break apart, after who knows how many blissful minutes of slow and steady kissing, John is lying next to Sherlock on the bed, one hand firmly entangled in Sherlock's hair, the other stroking up and down Sherlock's side. Sherlock's hand, the one that isn't pinioned in place by the way Sherlock's cradling John's shoulders, is more active, roving over every inch of John's back and shoulders.

Every so often the tips of the fingers just brush the top curve of John's arse and, as John focuses on Sherlock's now heavy lidded eyes that are almost black with desire, he sees the question in the fleeting touches and that still acute gaze.

'It's okay. I'm fine, honestly,' John murmurs, shifting closer still. The move serves to press his now renewed erection against Sherlock's hip and he gasps, then repeats the motion. And then keeps going, synapses sparking at the onslaught of pleasure.

'Jesus, Sherlock … Thought about this so often.'

'Mmm.' Sherlock moves so swiftly John barely registers the grip and twist before he's on top of Sherlock, arse being kneaded by Sherlock's fingers, their cocks pressed together, pre-come making slide slickly against one another.

'Oh fuck!' John throws his head back, arching fully into the glorious sensation, as Sherlock gives an equally loud, but wordless, cry beneath him. John closes his eyes, concentrating purely on the feelings and letting his body do just what it wants. It wants to be closer to Sherlock so he slides himself between Sherlock's legs, bracing some of his weight on his forearms but letting the rest of his body rest against Sherlock's. His skin feels almost electrified everywhere they're pressed together and he drops his head, eyes still closed, into the crook of Sherlock's neck as he rocks against Sherlock. Sherlock starts to move with him and it feels to John as if they've done this before, have always been doing this.

'This is how it always starts,' Sherlock says, voice low and breathless in John's ear, 'you on top of me, pressing me down into the mattress, setting the pace.'

John doesn't need to ask what Sherlock's talking about. He's not sure if he could get his brain to produce a coherent sentence whilst Sherlock's describing his own fantasy about John right in his ear. So he doesn't, just keeps moving and listening.

'It's not enough to take me over the edge, but it's enough, eventually, to get me really close-oh! … Oh yes, John!'

John hadn't meant to nip at the tendon in Sherlock's neck, it was simply instinct as it flexed against his mouth but Sherlock's reaction has him doing it again and again and again, in counterpoint to the rolling of his hips. A small part of his brain points out that if he keeps going Sherlock will have a matched pair of bruises either side of his neck and that, combined with Sherlock's gasps and moans, has him really biting down, sucking hard.

'John!' Sherlock sounds more than frantic, 'God! So close! S-stop!'

John stills his hips and mouth with effort then opens his eyes, lifting his head just in time to see Sherlock's eyelids flicker closed. Sherlock's face is flushed pink, glistening with sweat and he's biting his lower lip.

'God, you're gorgeous.'

Sherlock forces his eyes back open and John can see his irises are now completely hidden by his pupils. John heaves in a breath, unable to look away. His heart is pounding in his chest and the rightness of this moment - of being here, doing this - is almost overwhelming.

'I love you, Sherlock.'

He doesn't quite know how the declaration got from brain to tongue but he can't take it back now. Doesn't want to either. It's true, after all. Sherlock's eyes widen at the words and for a fraction of a second John thinks he's ruined everything, but then he feels Sherlock's cock twitch against his own.

'John_._'Sherlock's looking at him like he's the eighth wonder of the world, then, in the next instant, Sherlock's hands are cradling his face and he's being kissed so fervently he feels as if his entire body might catch fire.

'John,' Sherlock gasps into his mouth after what could be seconds or could be years. Frankly John doesn't care, he could kiss Sherlock forever and never be satisfied. 'John. Need … your fingers … Now!'

'Lube?' John asks as he pushes himself up so he's kneeling between Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off John as he gropes, one handed and very haphazardly, across his bedside table. Several books and a _something_ that John doesn't want to speculate too much about are knocked to the floor before his questing fingers locate their prize, hidden behind the lamp. 'Here.'

John takes the tube, pulling Sherlock's hand to his mouth and kissing it briefly before he lets go. He's not nervous any more, per-se, but his stomach twists a little at what he's about to do.

'I've thought about this. More times than I can count. And I've done prostate exams before, but-'

'But nothing.' Sherlock's gaze is intense as he shifts restlessly on the bed. 'I trust you. I want you to do this just as much as you want to do it. Besides, it's not that different to fingering a woman, not in any way that counts … and I'm not some blushing virgin.'

'You may not be a virgin, but you are a rather lovely shade of pink.' John says with a smile as he flips open the cap and slicks up the first two fingers of his left hand.

'You're quite lovely yourself.' Sherlock drawls as he pulls his knees up and lets his legs fall open, exposing himself even more. 'Now shut up and finger me.'

'Impatient,' John chides but he does as he's bid, now that the lube is no longer quite so cold. He trails his index finger down Sherlock's cock, watching intently, feeling as if he isn't the one controlling it, as it maps the length of his shaft, softly circles the corona, sweeps over the glans and down the underside, tracing the vein towards Sherlock's balls.

By the time his fingers have caressed each ball in turn and then reached Sherlock's pucker, Sherlock's jaw is clenched, his hands are fisted in the sheets and his breathing is shallow and fast. He looks like he's coming undone by degrees, watching John watching him. John isn't fairing much better, his cock is aching with the need to be touched and he keeps forgetting to breathe at all. Still, he's not going to rush this. He wants to keep this memory forever, as detailed as he can make it.

Softly he rubs the pad of finger over Sherlock's hole once, twice, before he starts pushing oh-so-gently inside.

He works slowly, getting used to the feeling of Sherlock's tight, silken heat pressing round his finger. He revels in each new millimetre of Sherlock he touches, of each gasp and groan his stroking elicits. He's almost up to his second knuckle when Sherlock speaks.

'More,' he demands, rocking his hips up and then down in attempt to force John's finger further in.

'Stop that,' John says, injecting a note of censure into his voice as he withdraws his hand. 'I thought you wanted me to _take _you.'

Sherlock's whole body goes unnaturally still and a noise somewhere between a whimper and a squeak emerges from his mouth, as he's left empty and wanting. A noise that switches on a part of John he hadn't let out for a long time.

'You like that?' he asks, just to be sure, even as he effortlessly pins Sherlock's hips to the mattress with his right hand. 'You want me to take control?'

'_John._'

No one has ever said his name like that before. As if it's a prayer and an answer to the same prayer, all in one breath. It sounds as though Sherlock thinks he is the most amazing thing in the universe, as if he _is _Sherlock's universe; that there is nothing more to Sherlock's world than him and nothing more is wanted.

He's also never heard submissive consent voiced so clearly without using the word yes in his whole life and it sends a thrill through him that is one part lust to two parts amazed wonder that this man, who normally exudes power and control from every pore, wants to submit at all, never mind submit to plain old John Watson. Still, if this is what he thinks it is, he wants to be absolutely sure.

'Sherlock. Tell me _exactly_ what you want from me.'

'Everything, John. I want you everything that you are, everything that you will give me.'

Which isn't an answer, not really, and John is about to demand clarification when he realises that Sherlock's thumb is stroking over the tattoo on his bicep and his words from earlier - _"put your mouth to better use, Captain"_ - echo through John's head.

'You want Captain Watson in this bed, don't you Sherlock?' he says, using the same tone of voice he used to use on the newest members of the platoon.

'Yes, I do.'

It's exactly the answer he wanted and it makes his cock throb in time with the want-need-want that is pulsing through his veins at the thought of how Sherlock wants him to behave. All the doubts and fears from earlier are not so much pushed aside as burned away to less than ash by the explosive feeling of rightness this development has triggered in his core. Because this is role he's used to, one he's played before and enjoyed more than he thought possible and the one thing he'd never thought he'd have with Sherlock. Now the fact that it's a male body under his hands couldn't be less important in the face of what he's being asked to do. What he will do. Because taking control and taking someone apart is what he does best.

'Next time I'll wear my dog tags,' he informs Sherlock. He still hasn't resumed fingering Sherlock, the pad of his index finger still merely resting at the entrance to Sherlock's hole, brushing gently over the pucker and making Sherlock whimper with need. 'For now, you'll just have to imagine them … What will you imagine, soldier?'

'You, in your dog tags,' Sherlock responds instantly.

'Me, in my dog tags, what?' he asks, so sharply the words seem to slice through the air.

Sherlock's cock jerks, his eyes going impossibly wider and darker even as he scrambles to say 'Sir! You, in your dog tags, sir-!'

John smiles when the end of the word turns into a bitten off groan as he presses into Sherlock again.

'Let me hear you,' he orders as he resumes his exploration of Sherlock's arse. 'But that's all you can do, talk. No touching, no pushing down. You just lie there and take what I give you.'

'S-sir.'

John's not heard that word slurred with need before and it makes him want in a way he's never realised he's capable of, makes him desperate to hurry. He doesn't. Perversely – prolonging his own exquisite agony along with Sherlock's - he works slower than before. Taking delight in each moan, gasp and cry his tortuous attentions wring from Sherlock's lips. Revelling in the feel of muscles quivering under his hand and around his fingers as Sherlock fights his own instincts, desperately trying to obey his orders, orders that John knows will be almost impossible to comply with once he finds the sweet spot deep inside.

Sure enough, once John's got two fingers scissoring and stroking and they're far enough inside Sherlock to just brush the bottom edge of his smooth bump, Sherlock's control starts to fail. Sherlock's hips jolt of their own accord at every slick pass of John's finger, his thigh muscles quiver with the effort of limiting his movement to a minimum, and there are the words. The flow of obscenities pouring from Sherlock's lips gives a level of credence to John naming him "Soldier" that John had not expected.

Still, Sherlock's trying to obey and that's what matters. John leans in and down, pressing a fleeting kiss to Sherlock's mouth and then resumes his ministrations, this time with both hands. He uses his right to gently smooth the copious amounts of pre-come oozing from Sherlock's slit up and down the now deep red shaft of his cock whilst his left continues his exploration of Sherlock's prostate, working a third finger inside and setting up a rhythm that has Sherlock groaning from the bottom of his lungs.

'God, you're stunning,' John says, voice so rough with lust he almost doesn't recognise it as his own.

He knows those words are not ones Captain Watson should say but he can't help himself, unable to stay completely in character – not this first time, with Sherlock spread out under his hands like this. For Sherlock is a flushed, sweat drenched, trembling mess of need; eyes screwed shut, chest heaving, swollen lips parted as he sobs his desperation to the ceiling.

'I could watch you like this forever.'

'John, no!' Sherlock's eyes fly open in panic, his voice a dark, shattered rumble as he writhes around John's fingers. 'I – I mean no, Sir! Oh God, Sir, don't make me wait. Please! I'm ready for you, Sir. I'm so ready!'

'Say that again,' John orders, even as he grabs the lube with his free hand and starts to slick his aching cock.

'I'm ready, Sir.'

'Not that, Soldier.' Both of John's hands go still as Sherlock blinks at him in confusion. 'Beg … I want to hear you beg.'

The look of pure unadulterated lust that flashes into Sherlock's eyes sends another bolt of desire through John, but that sensation is nothing to what he feels when Sherlock opens his mouth and obeys.

'Please, Sir.'

John starts fingering him again.

'God, please, I need you … Need you to take me, fuck me, fill me, sir!'

John works his fingers harder, faster and Sherlock's whole body convulses at the change of pace.

'I … uh …. hnngh … please … _please_ … _John_.'

John's control is shattered by the way Sherlock keens his name up at the ceiling. All the elements of Captain Watson are pushed aside by the rush of affection washing through his body until it's just him and Sherlock in bed again, all artifice and play acting aside.

John moves closer into the v of Sherlock's spread legs, gently sliding his fingers out and repositioning himself so his cock is pressing at Sherlock's hole. Sherlock reaches up to him and he leans down, caging Sherlock's shoulders in as Sherlock's hands sweep fretfully up and down, mapping his shoulders, back and arse.

The message is clear enough so John starts to press in, the head of his cock just beginning to breach Sherlock. It feels shockingly hot, despite the fact he had his fingers there less than a minute ago, and the urge to come is, for a moment, almost overwhelming. He pauses, arms shaking with the effort of holding everything back.

'John?' There is a tremor in Sherlock's voice that has nothing to do with desire and makes John's stomach clench in sympathy, even as the knowledge that Sherlock's also nervous about this makes his heart swell in his chest.

'I love you,' John reiterates, before kissing Sherlock, trying to pour everything he's feeling into the joining of lips and tongues. 'I love you.'

'Yes,' Sherlock pants out, hands coming to rest on John arse and squeezing, 'Yes, John. Now please …'

'Okay.'

John presses in. There's very little resistance; the tight, silken heat of Sherlock's body envelops him, the ease of entry seeming, to John's pheromone and serotonin addled brain, like a sign that this is how it's supposed to be.

'God, Sherlock, you feel …' John's words are cut off by Sherlock's mouth crashing onto his own and Sherlock's legs banding round his waist, pulling them together so closely John can only moan his appreciation into the kiss. He tries to do more though, rolling his hips and moving his tongue in counterpoint. Sherlock groans, arching into the sensation and breaking the kiss.

'Fuck me,' Sherlock gasps against John's mouth, 'fuck me so hard I can't speak.'

John can't get his mouth to form a coherent response. Not that he needs to when his body is doing the job for him, hips pistoning, pushing him deeper as Sherlock groans and clings to him. It's a feedback loop of pleasure, and John moves faster still, pounding into Sherlock as he chases the orgasm that began curling deep in his groin the instant Sherlock demanded to be fucked.

He's close, so fucking close, but not quite there and he shifts, digging his toes into the mattresses and squaring his arms to change the angle, just so … just that little bit more …

Sherlock flings his head back, mouth opening in a soundless cry, his body convulsing and cock jolting, spurting hot and wet between them as he comes untouched. John's own orgasm is equally explosive, ripping Sherlock's name from his throat as the white hot intensity flares through his veins, blotting out all thoughts but those of the man beneath him, who is still whimpering through his own aftershocks.

When he can breathe again John finds himself collapsed over Sherlock, face buried in his neck. Sherlock's arms and legs are still wrapped round him and he can feel Sherlock's come, trapped between their bellies. It should feel unpleasant, cooling as it is, but it doesn't - just oddly intimate – so he just closes his eyes again and revels in the closeness.

'John,' Sherlock rumbles a few minutes later, voice deliciously gravelly, 'John, are you asleep?'

'Yes,' John lifts his head and grins at Sherlock, 'yes, I'm asleep and having the most wonderful dream.'

'Idiot,' Sherlock says, with none of acerbity that usually accompanies the word, his mouth is only curving a little but the smile in his eyes could light continents it's so bright.

'I should move.' John makes no attempt to act on his words. 'I have no idea if you're really a cuddler after sex or just humouring me.'

'It appears I am a cuddler, as you put it.' Sherlock's fingers idly tracing figures of eight on John's back. 'Since I don't find this remotely unpleasant.'

'Good.' John rests his head back against Sherlock's shoulder and they lie there, just revelling in the closeness, until their breathing has returned to normal.

'We need to clean up,' John says at last, attempting to slide himself off Sherlock.

He doesn't get very far, Sherlock only shifting enough for John to end up lying next to him and then pulling him back him, spooning him from behind.

'We really don't.'

John doesn't argue, instead wriggling until he can hook one foot into the mess of duvet at the bottom of the bed and drag it up over them. His pants come with it and Sherlock grabs them, using them to wipe the worst of the mess away. Then they settle down again, John tucked close into Sherlock's body, Sherlock's breath warm on the back of his neck.

'How's your head?' Sherlock murmurs, lips ghosting over the edge of the lump.

'Can't feel it right now,' John murmurs back, 'but I wouldn't much care if I could.'

'This is worth the wound, then?'Sherlock tightens his arms around John as he speaks and John hears the tiniest hint of nervousness in the words. He smiles, snuggling back into the embrace and lacing his fingers into Sherlock's where they lie over his stomach.

'Yes.' He moves their joined hands up, bringing them to rest over the scar on his shoulder. 'Worth both of them, in fact.'

Sherlock's whole body freezes for a moment, lips stilling mid-kiss to the back of John's neck.

'I didn't mean-'

'I know you didn't,' John says, cutting Sherlock off before he can misunderstand what John meant any further. 'I know you'd never wish me hurt, just as I would never wish any hurt on you. I just mean that, if all this was the path I had to walk to find the other half of my soul, then I have no regrets. Not one.'

Sherlock sighs. It's an incredibly Sherlockian sigh, in that's it's complex enough to contain agreement, contentment and understanding all at the same time. It's also soothing, bleeding the tension out of both of them.

'I'm glad we're here,' he says, voice soft.

'So am I.' John turns in Sherlock's arms so they're face to face and presses a light kiss to his lips. 'And right now, that's all that matters.'


End file.
